


...people are a problem.

by scrub456



Series: John and Sherlock's Excellent Adventure [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Douglas Adams, Fluff, Greek boys, Idiots in Love, John and Sherlock's Excellent Adventure Universe, M/M, Towel Day 2018, wedding anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Anniversary surprises.“To summarize the summary of the summary: people are a problem.”― Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe





	...people are a problem.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts), [brokenlibrarygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlibrarygirl/gifts).



> For notjustmom - my writing partner, my person, my heart. <3
> 
> And for brokenlibrarygirl who is having a hard week, and who loves these boys as much as we do. <3

John leaned back into his seat, eyes closed, and let the warm sea air rush over him. Through him. Washing away the past thirty six hours. He felt as if he were breathing for the first time since he'd stepped on the ferry and left Sherlock, and Bluebell, looking forlorn and abandoned on the shore.

* * *

 

Mycroft had called the week prior about an issue with the paperwork maintaining John’s medical registry. He'd insisted John needed to see to it in person, and he'd sounded just ominous enough that John hadn't doubted him.

John had been excited for the trip. Sherlock less so.

After the encounter with Moran, Sherlock’s tolerance for life in London, the press of people, the frenetic pace, the constant threat to their peace, was just too much. Things had happened quickly then. Early (very early, thank you) retirement. The wedding. Trading their rooms at Baker Street for the cozy Greek beachside cottage.

Sherlock hadn't looked back. Hadn't seemed to miss any of what they'd left behind, with the exception of those individuals closest to them. And nearly a year since the move, he was still not ready to face London again.

For the most part John was of the same mind. But there were still some days when, after a night fraught with terror, images he'd never forget, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to replace them with better, lovelier memories, he'd wake disoriented and longing for home. Their home. The first place John ever felt he fit.

The prospect of returning to Baker Street, of seeing their friends, hearing and feeling the city he loved pulsing around him, was thrilling. An adventure. Sherlock was not convinced, though they both agreed the business at hand was necessary -- Sherlock would never, _could never,_ deny his John the means to practice his craft if he chose to do so.

They'd settled, reluctantly, on John making the quick trip on his own. Two nights apart seemed the limit of what they could manage. It was two nights longer than they'd been apart since that first night they'd shared a bed the very first time they'd visited the cottage on holiday. And they'd certainly never been apart since they were married. The prospect of that was less exciting.

The morning John left had dawned grey, the threat of a storm heavy in the atmosphere. Bluebell had remained a constant fixture at his side, Sherlock not far behind. In the village, Andreas had pressed a packet of sandwiches into his hands and Ionna had tearfully kissed his cheeks. Niko and Alex fretted around him, until he'd calmed them with the promise of bringing them back a surprise. At the pier, he and Sherlock had clung to each other until the last possible moment.

“Please come home.” Sherlock had sounded so small, so shattered, it had nearly destroyed John. He'd almost declared _sod it all_ and dragged Sherlock back to bed. But Sherlock had kissed his forehead, turned him by the shoulders to face the ferry and whispered, “Go. I miss you already. Don't keep me waiting.”

A cold, sleek car met him at the airport and had whisked him off to meet Mycroft. They'd settled the discrepancies quickly (John thought there really was no reason it couldn't be done by mail), and left together to meet his eclectic, adopted _London_ family for dinner.

It was lovely. Truly. He'd missed them all terribly. But Angelo’s was just wrong without Sherlock. The bigness of the city felt oppressive. Even the people -- not _his_ people, but everyone else -- seemed distant, distracted, and as a whole disenchanted. And everything was just so damn loud. Even the quiet loneliness of their old room at Baker Street rang too harshly in his ears.

After a few miserably failed attempts at Skyping with Sherlock, and an unsatisfyingly sad phone call, John's mind was made up. He changed his ticket for early the next afternoon, set an early alarm so he could run a few errands, and settled in for a sleepless night.

* * *

  
John rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched. He watched Timotheos deftly guide the small boat to the dock. John scrambled up the low wall and helped secure the ropes. Timotheos handed him his rucksack and the packages he'd brought with him, before jumping up to join him.

“I can drive you the rest of the way. Andreas won't mind if I use the truck.” Timotheos chuckled. “Ionna will be angry if I don't.”

John shook his head. “I've already asked too much. Besides, I need to stretch my legs.” There was an excited yip and bundle of fur and joyfully wagging tail darted out of the shadows and crashed into his knees. “And Kya will make sure I get home,” John laughed.

“This was nothing, my friend. What brothers would do.” Timotheos took John's outstretched hand. “I only hope someday I find a love worth travelling across the globe in the middle of the night to get home to.”

“And people call me a romantic,” John winked and turned toward home.

The night was clear. The nearly full moon illuminated the paths, and the stars were out in full splendor. Kya frolicked to and fro all around him, and the sounds of the island settling for the night were soothing.

John barely noticed any of it.

He secured the cardboard tube under his arm, shifted the paper wrapped box in his hands, and increased his pace until he was almost jogging. By the time he reached the last stretch, he was running. The cottage was dark except a single light in the back. Sherlock would be waiting for him to call.

Who was John to keep him waiting?

Stopping just steps from the cottage, John dialed Sherlock’s number. He let it ring out twice before impatience won and made his way quietly through the front door.

John had fully been expecting to find his madman deep in a strop, perhaps disassembling one of the many toasters they’d received as wedding gifts. Instead he was greeted by a spotless sitting room and the strong scent of paint.

“Good lord, he’s actually done it,” John chuckled to himself. They’d long discussed fixing the hole Sherlock and Mycroft had made in the guestroom wall, and then painting the room as well. While there had been nothing but time, the hole still remained. It became a joke, Violet asking after it every time they spoke on the phone. Sherlock must have been so bored out his mind, even household repairs were appealing. John had to rescue him.

He dumped his rucksack and shoes next to the front door and made his way slowly to the guest room, attempting not to trip over Kya and Bluebell doing the happy puppy dance in circles around his feet. “C’mon girls, work with me.” He fumbled the packages in order to scratch ears, pat rumps, and wrangle the guest door open.

Two steps into the room, and John’s breath was stolen from him. He managed to sit down hard on the floor before he fell, and somehow saved the fragile box from being crushed. Two curious dogs curled around him, watching him with concern. Bluebell whined and nuzzled him.

“How…” John whispered. “Oh, what did he do?” He tangled his fingers in Bluebell’s fur and stared in awe at the room around him.

Sherlock had indeed patched the hole in the wall. Patched it and painted it. Painted three of the walls, in fact. An unusual sort of green that John could never quite name. A shade very reminiscent of a certain sitting room in a particular flat back in London. The fourth wall… Oh god. How had he match the wallpaper exactly? And the damn yellow smiley face (minus the bullet holes, to John’s relief).

There were two new armchairs, not _their_ chairs, but similar enough in style. And a comfortable looking couch. The windows were hung with more modern long drapes, but the effect was much the same. Instead of a desk, a table with two chairs was set up as a workstation, two laptops at the ready. On the floor was a well cared for and lovingly worn antique area rug.

And the assorted detritus from the flat they’d not been able to part with was perfectly placed. The hideous warped mirror. The antelope skull with the headphones. The tatty Union Jack cushion, the skull print, a bookshelf full of their combined accumulated tomes, and of course, Billy the skull.

John hadn’t realized he was crying until a shower warm Sherlock, dressed in pajama bottoms and one of John’s old ratty t-shirts, knelt before him. He cupped John’s face in his hands and wiped his tears with his thumbs. “You’re early.”

“I hated it. Being there and you…”

“I missed you too, John.” He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on John’s brow. “Do you, uhm… What do you…”

“How? Sherlock, _how_ did you?” John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists in an attempt to ground himself.

“I had help,” Sherlock shrugged, feigning innocence. “Petros. Timotheos. The boys had fun painting. Andreas and Ionna gave us the rug…”

John huffed a laugh. “Mycroft?”

Sherlock hummed and looked guilty. “There really was paperwork.”

“You sentimental prat.” John shook his head then pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s palm. “Absolute madman.”

“ _Your_ madman.” Sherlock whispered as he pulled John into a hug. “You miss it sometimes. You wake up, and you’re lost. I wanted to help…”

“Shhh,” John pulled back enough to kiss Sherlock’s jaw. “It’s perfect. This is perfect. I love it, and I love you.”

“But you do miss it. Baker Street. London.”

“I thought… Well, I thought I did. But this trip,” John tucked his head under Sherlock’s chin. “I miss our family there.”

“Sentimental attachment. People are always a problem.”

“Idiot,” John laughed. “Everything else, Angelo’s, London, even the flat, was wrong without you.” He exhaled deeply. “It doesn’t matter where I go. My home is here, καρδιά μου,” he placed his hand over Sherlock’s heart. “Wherever you are.”

“Who’s sentimental now?” Sherlock lifted John's face and kissed him gently.

“You had an unfair advantage,” John grinned as he pulled away. “But I can level the field.”

“Oh?” Sherlock eyed the box John nudged toward him. Curiosity got the better of him, and Sherlock ripped the paper away, and slid the top off the box. It took letting go of John in order to properly dispose of the packing tissue and reveal an antique set of test tubes in a proper stand, and an assortment of old beakers and apothecary jars.

“They're beautiful, John.” He held one up to the light.

“They go with this.” John handed him the cardboard tube. “The crew is coming next month to make the repairs on Myc and Vi’s place. They're coming here first. You just need to finalize a few things.”

Stunned, Sherlock slid the roll of paper out of the tube to reveal plans for a small detached lab. “John!” Sherlock’s fingers shook as he traced the outline. It was obvious John had taken the lead in the design.

“I hope it's okay. You can change it all if…”

“No! It's perfect. It will be perfect.” He dropped the blueprints and pulled John into another kiss.

“Happy Anniversary, love.”

“You know,” Sherlock looked at him with mischief in his eyes, “that couch? It becomes a bed.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock kissed _that_ spot, the one behind John’s ear.

“We'd be terrible hosts if we expected a guest to use it before we tested it ourselves.” John shuddered and leaned into Sherlock’s affections.

“My thoughts exactly.”


End file.
